


The Things Left Silent

by theLiterator



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Evil!Cullen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mages and Templars, non-con, you can take the templar out of the circle but you can't take the circle out of the templar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2712554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what it means to be a mage in the south. This is that which you will never forget.</p>
<p>This is forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things Left Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the kinkmeme, but when you write 3000 words in 2 hours, you just gotta share it with the world.

Dorian rather disliked the southern mages. Oh, he wasn’t truly _against_ them, per se, but he wasn’t enamored of them either. They tended toward extremes: shy and demure and submissive to all others, or furious and childish and prone to tantrums.

Not, of course, that he was opposed to a good tantrum now and then; but he was, at least, aware that he was throwing them, and he used them wisely.

Their leader, Maxwell Trevelyan (to whom Dorian was related; if the family name had held true,) was the first sort, which made him only slightly more tolerable than the rebel mages, all of whom seemed to be the second sort. Mage Trevelyan was, in fact, so completely unobtrusive when they were within the confines of Haven that Dorian often didn’t notice him when he was in a room. It seemed, sometimes, that even Sera wasn’t nearly so subtle.

He spent most of his time in Solas’s company, or lurking in the dungeons where Alexius was kept, ever on the brink of speaking with him, but everything was wrapped up in how _betrayed_ he felt, and in Felix’s suicide, so he mostly sat just out of sight and tried to come up with the words to express his feelings on the matter.

He was fairly certain Alexius knew he was there. It was becoming a habit, and he found that the mere proximity of his mentor was growing to be more reassuring than infuriating, and so, sometimes, he allowed himself to think of other things.

When they were out in the countryside, ‘surveying Mage Trevelyan’s kingdom’ as it were, the other man blossomed. He was engaging and personable, with a sense of humor that was so en pointe that Dorian had a hard time reconciling the shift in demeanor.

He wondered whether it was merely the pervasive cold of being up in the mountains that kept Mage Trevelyan still and silent, or if it was something else.

The image of Mage Trevelyan as a wilting hothouse flower made him smile, and he wondered if he might, someday, broach the subject; wondered _how_. But Mage Trevelyan was supposed to be this Herald of Andraste, which meant Dorian was stuck with Solas’s company and his own; Vivienne's too, when she deigned to join them.

He was leaning up against the door to the very worst of the dungeon cells when Commander Cullen came in, and Dorian nodded pleasantly at him, even as he wondered what business might have brought Cullen down this far.

“Mage,” the other man said curtly, and Dorian shrugged it off. Perhaps the man didn’t remember his name; he didn’t much enjoy lingering among the mages, in Dorian’s experience, so it could be that he just didn’t know what to call Dorian. Still, Dorian had ever been one to follow his instincts, so he allowed the unease he felt to color his reaction and carefully drew upon his connection to the Fade, ready to defend himself…

And, if necessary, Alexius, he realized with an abrupt sinking feeling, as Alexius started shouting, and Cullen; well. Cullen didn’t seem to have any response, but that didn’t matter; nothing mattered except that Dorian would not be the one who sat idly by while his mentor was being… tortured. Something.

He lurched to his feet and burst into that room, making instant note of his surroundings and calling up fire. Suddenly, abruptly, he couldn’t feel the Fade and he gasped aloud, staggering back a step, then another.

Cullen turned to him, but it was not Cullen Dorian was looking at, it was _Alexius_ , whose eyes were wide with horror and who was shaking his head and mouthing “run”.

Confused, Dorian tried to call another spell, but there was still only silence where the Fade had been, and Cullen advanced on him, steady and predatory, with a mad gleam in his eyes that made Dorian flinch back and stumble.

He wondered, wildly, why his magic was failing him now, and then Cullen had slammed him against a wall, hard, and his head cracked against stone and the breath fled his lungs all in a rush. Dorian brought his hands up to protect himself, but never before had magic failed him, and he had no idea what to do in a physical contest.

“Stop!” he demanded. “Commander Cullen, what are you—“ A gauntleted hand clamped down over his face, covering his mouth and jaw, and he struggled in earnest, trying to pry himself free to no avail.

Alexius shouted his name then, desperate and thin and Dorian realized, in that moment, that he had no control over what was happening. He was reliant entirely on outside aid, and here, in the dungeons, such would not be forthcoming.

Cullen knocked him against the wall again, so that Dorian was dazed, and then he took a knife from his belt and started hacking away at Dorian’s clothing. He protested, but the words came out slurred and terrified instead of decisive, and Cullen would likely have ignored him either way.

“Always walking around, so cocky and full of yourself—“ Cullen muttered as he tossed Dorian’s shirt aside. “I’ll fill you up, show you your place, you’ll see.”

“Please,” Dorian heard himself whisper hoarsely.

“Commander!” Alexius shouted. “You didn’t come down here for him, did you?”

“Just like a mage,” Cullen snapped, turning suddenly on Alexius. Dorian forced himself away from the wall, wobbling as the room seemed to move of its own accord. He needed to get to the steps, up into the Chantry proper—Vivienne would be right there, she could—

Something like the Fade rushed at him then, all at once, heavy enough with Cullen’s intent to push Dorian to his knees, then prostrate on the filthy floor.

“Always trying to distract us from our holy duties, always trying to hide the other mages. You think I don’t realize that you’re not the only apostate in this camp? You’re _all_ apostates and it is my sworn oath to bring you back into the fold!” he kicked Dorian in the side, and Dorian thought vaguely that at least he hadn’t felt the rib break. Broken ribs were nasty, and much like Tevinter, true healers were few and far between here. “I have a question, _apostate_. If you were given the choice of it; if you were asked whether it was you or him tonight, who would you choose?”

“Me!” Alexius cried, and then he repeated, softer, wondering. “Myself—me. Leave Dorian be; he’s discreet enough, I swear it.”

Cullen laughed, and it sounded half-mad, but Dorian thought he might be half-mad himself, here. The Fade-not-Fade held him pinned to the floor and his head was pounding and his eyes watering.

Cullen bent, put the knife to the base of Dorian’s spine.

“And you, worm?” he demanded. “Who would you pick? Would you have me help you, or help Alexius.”

It took Dorian a long moment to realize what Cullen meant, and when he did, his stomach turned to ice.

“Me, of course,” he whispered. He had, in fact, made that decision (despite not knowing the full consequences of it) when he’d burst into the room minutes earlier.

“Well,” Cullen said as he deftly cut Dorian’s trousers off. “As it happens, I agree with you, Dorian. My apologies, Alexius; I won’t be able to accommodate you at this time.”

His arms were jerked back and something—one of the straps from his shirt, perhaps? Was wrapped tightly around his wrists and secured there. As soon as that was done, the oppressive weight disappeared, not that it did him much good.

He struggled but could not free himself.

“Shh,” Cullen said, stroking the bare skin of Dorian’s back. “It’s all right now. I’ll teach you, and everything will be better.”

Dorian bit his lip to keep from crying out, simply because he _knew_ where this was going. (It was shaming to learn that everything his father had told him about the south happened to be true. It was shaming how much he wanted his father in that moment.)

Alexius was talking to him, soft words in Tevene, and he realized it was a promise to find help, and Dorian wanted to be able to laugh at that, but he couldn’t. Who could help him against this monster who could keep him from the Fade with the barest of intentions? It was impossible.

“You’ll learn,” Cullen repeated, crooning the words like some sort of litany, even as he pressed fingers inside of Dorian. “You’ll see how easy it is to be a good mage; you don’t have to be an apostate, you’ll see.”

The next thing he pressed inside of Dorian had him crying out and twisting, trying to escape the relentless pain of the onslaught.

He didn’t have the strength or will or _something_ to struggle long, and Cullen stroked his hair gently as if giving some sort of sick reward. “That’s it, that’s exactly right, mage.”

Dorian sobbed, and it was only supposed to be once, but after the first, he couldn’t hold back the tide of emotion any longer, so he was weeping into the floor while Cullen drove into him and told him he was being so, so good.

He almost didn’t notice the abrupt cessation in movement, except that Cullen slid out of him and he could feel the Fade again, though all he had wits to do was grasp for a barrier, the blue light coming up around him and shielding him from the world. His hands were still bound, but he could, and _did_ twist to his knees and scurry away, pressing his back flat to cold, protective stone.

Once he had control of his breath again, and the terror had lifted slightly, he realized that Mage Trevelyan was very carefully crouched near him, his expression clear and earnest, his posture submissive.

“Mage Trevelyan,” Dorian whispered. “How—“ that thing Cullen had done, to silence the Fade should have made it impossible to defeat him, and yet.

“The first thing you figure out, in the Circle, is that if you can find a knife, you carry it. The second thing you figure out is that it doesn’t do you any good, because they’ll always find a way to punish you for it and take it away.”

Dorian wanted to nod, but the pain was resolving itself to specific complaints, sharp and fierce in his head, dull and throbbing in his side; rough and hot between his legs.

“I… see,” he said, and he did. He hadn’t before, but he did now.

“For what it is worth, Dorian, I had hoped you wouldn’t,” Mage Trevelyan said. “We need to get your things together, and then we’re going to sneak upstairs, do you understand?”

“My things?” Dorian repeated stupidly. His clothing was ruined, regardless, so it wouldn’t matter to leave it for a time, until he was ready to revisit this.

“Yes,” Mage Trevelyan said, moving to retrieve the knife. Alexius put his hand out, through the bar.

“It will lend verisimilitude if you leave me the knife,” he told Mage Trevelyan, and Dorian forced himself to his feet so he could stop Mage Trevelyan from passing the weapon over.

“No!” he snapped. “I mean—you can’t… We’ll figure something out, we’ll—“

“Well,” Alexius said. “You could kill him instead.”

“I can’t kill him,” Mage Trevelyan said. “He may be a Templar, but he’s also the commander of our forces, and no one else is suited for the job. I asked the Iron Bull, before, and he said—well. He said he won’t do it.”

“Then, Dorian, let the sweet southern boy give me the knife.”

“They’ll kill you,” Dorian whispered hoarsely.

“Dorian, they’re going to kill me anyway.”

Dorian nodded and shivered, and then Mage Trevelyan was wrapping him in a cloak, heavy with enchantments and smelling of woodsmoke and Dorian wondered when he’d dropped his barrier.

Dorian reached blindly for Mage Trevelyan’s hand, and Mage Trevelyan obliged, twining their fingers together. 

“Tell me, Mage Trevelyan,” Alexius said as he carefully tucked the knife in among some straw. “Do you truly see indenture to Tevinter as the worse fate?”

“Worse? No. But there is better to be had, I—I have to believe that.”

“Dorian,” Alexius said before dropping into Tevene. “I failed you as much as I failed the son of my blood.”

“You failed neither of us, teacher,” Dorian replied, and he would have continued, would have decried the Venatori, perhaps, but Cullen shifted slightly and groaned, and he and Mage Trevelyan needed to leave, or all three of them would suffer.

Mage Trevelyan’s quarters were quite pleasant; books upon books in a tiny room in the Chantry, a cot with a cotton-stuffed mattress and plenty of blankets, a brazier with an ewer of water warming next to it.

Dorian did not wait for an invitation; he merely collapsed on the cot and drew the cloak more tightly about his person. Maxwell opened a trunk and tossed Dorian’s clothing inside, then joined him, sitting just far enough away that no parts of them were touching.

“I underestimated…” _You,_ he thought. _Everything._ He sighed instead of finishing the thought, and leaned over just enough that his shoulder was touching Maxwell’s. It was, apparently, enough of an invitation, because suddenly he was being drawn into a warm, fierce embrace.

“How do they do it?” he asked. “How do they cut off the Fade?”

“If any of us knew that, we wouldn’t be vulnerable to it, I expect.”

Dorian shuddered, and Maxwell pressed a delicate kiss to his temple. “If you want to clean up, I can leave. You’re welcome to any of my things. Any—any mage is.”

Dorian nodded, then shook his head. “No, don’t leave me. Please.”

Maxwell smiled at him, small and quiet the way he always was, “I won’t, then.”

“Why don’t you leave?” Dorian blurted out. “You have the run of the countryside, and no one will blink if it’s the group of us; you and me and Solas and… the Iron Bull, of course, and we could go—“

“Do they tell little Tevinter children about the phylacteries?” Maxwell interrupted.

“Well, yes, but it’s a blood-binding. The southern Chantry wouldn’t—“

“Wouldn’t they?” Maxwell asked, and Dorian had to look at him again, now that he could truly _see_ , and he thought: instead of a shadow in the chill of Haven, he has been a caged bird all along.

He ached from seeing, and ached from what had caused him to see, so he turned his back and poured some water into the basin, grabbed a cloth so he could scrub himself clean.

Maxwell’s robes were warm, and soft, and worked through and through with protective enchantments that whispered uncomfortably against his skin so that he vowed to rely on this particular charity as briefly as possible. Seggrit should be able to get him what he needed; he’d go ask in the morning.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Dorian said softly, still not able to _look_ at Maxwell. “I’d rather not be alone for awhile.”

“Of course,” Maxwell replied, and when Dorian turned around, Maxwell had tucked his legs up under himself and made certain there was room enough for Dorian on the cot, and when Dorian sat down and hesitantly reached for the other mage, Maxwell came easily enough, lounging against his chest and reaching for the book on the table.

He opened the book to its marker and silently started to read. Dorian shut his eyes.

***

Maxwell gently encouraged the Fade to lull Dorian to sleep, and felt some relief when the desperate tension left the other man’s body at last. He had wondered whether he’d be able to keep Dorian from realizing just how accurate his granny’s fairy stories about the horrors of the south had been, and now he knew he couldn’t.

It was fair though, he thought, since he’d had the same realization about Tevinter in that awful future, so.

So.

He carefully laid aside his book again and extricated himself from Dorian’s clinging embrace in order to mess up his quarters a bit. He lit the incense they’d used in Ostwick to cover up the scent of sex, and he tossed his spare quilt to the floor in a jumble before tugging a piece of Dorian’s outfit so it was obvious that Dorian had changed into Maxwell’s clothing there, not that he had finally caved to the weather and started wearing sensible attire.

Once everything was set, he went back to his cot and curled back up against Dorian and resumed reading.

As he’d anticipated, it was only a short time before Cassandra and half-a-dozen of their men, two of them proper Templars, burst in to his room.

“That maleficar, Alexius, has attacked Cullen,” she accused. “And Dorian, who has _admitted_ to being his one-time apprentice is—“

“Right here,” Maxwell said, taking the time to slide his ivory bookmark back between the pages. “Forgive me, I know it’s not…”

“How long has he been here?” Cassandra demanded, staring at the room, taking in the details. “With the attack on the Commander—he is known for lingering in the dungeons. He must have borne witness—“

“We’ve been here the whole day,” Maxwell said, dropping his eyes to the floor in feigned embarrassment. “You said we might have the day, and I… well. _We_ took you at face value.”

“Of—of course, Herald,” Cassandra replied stiffly, formally. “Alexius is insisting that he stabbed Cullen and used some sort of poison to weaken him, but Cullen claims that Dorian was there. We were concerned he might be. Well. Missing.”

“He was not there—he fell straight to sleep,” a pause, and then he rubbed his lips lightly before catching Cassandra’s gaze and holding it. “ _After_. I was planning on waking him for supper.”

“Of course,” Cassandra said again. “But with Commander Cullen’s testimony--”

“You said Alexius poisoned him? Has he seen the alchemist and Solas? Or I could take a look. There could be other, more insidious effects; we know Alexius has used blood magic.”

Cassandra colored at that, then bowed. “Our apologies for interrupting your day, Herald,” she said stiffly, then with a sharp gesture for her men to proceed her, she withdrew.

Dorian had slept through the whole ordeal, and need never know just how little trusted the word of a mage was against a Templar—even when that mage was purportedly a Herald of Andraste.


End file.
